Of Flesh and Blood
by Garowyn
Summary: Auel Neider bitterly reflects on his existence and purpose until he comes to a conclusion about himself as a living weapon, and ultimately, a human being.


**A/N: I do not own Gundam Seed or Gundam Seed Destiny. A special thanks goes out to Caorann fridh Bronach, a terrific editor and friend.**

**I've been reading over and studying as best as I can the characters of the Extendeds. This one-shot is in Auel's POV, obviously, and my take at what he could be thinking.**

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I wonder why I said I wanted to be a professional basketball player. That desire is nothing but a pointless and foolish dream. I will never be the star player, the one who makes a shot and gets the ball in the net and wins the game at the last minute. I will never be able to live without my leash – my block word. Even thinking about that word makes me shudder.

My life is centered on fearing, fighting, and being immortalized like a photograph; that is, if you took a picture of me right now in my uniform, that is all I will ever be. I will not advance to some higher position, nor will I walk out the Earth Alliance base doors and transform into a normal teenager. I'm not a solider because being a solider implies being a human who fights for something. I am an object; I am not human. I am simply a tool, a weapon to be used by somebody else. An object has no past, present, or future. It just _is_ and that is all I'll ever be.

Every time I climb into those stupid cocoon things to "sleep," I know that is when they perform their wants on me. I know that my mind is erased of memories from time to time because I have déjà vu every time I pass certain people in the base. I know I have seen them before. I guess their memory-erasing process doesn't work too well, and I should be glad, but what does it matter? Half of me becomes a new person each time the process is done; a life renewed. Somehow I've been born again, used and modified, just like an object.

I was mass-produced in Lodonia; there were others like me. I don't know where they came from, but I do know some were disposed of, being less than competent. Or I killed them. I killed them in a trial run, a test, or a battle in order for the scientists to see which object is more skillful, to find out which tool can be best used to end the war – in favor of the naturals, of course.

Ah, yes, the coordinators. I, the object, am the natural's attempt to create coordinators without going all the way. They want to stand by their resentment and not contradict themselves; they are jealous! Yet, they trained and experimented on others and me so that we could be just as good as the coordinators and could pilot mobile suits like the Abyss so we can match the power and strength of the enemy.

Objects, tools, weapons – that's us, the extended. We are neither naturals nor coordinators. "Extended" says it all. We're just an extension of the natural-born humans, but not quite at the level of the altered humans. We don't belong on earth, and we don't belong on the colonies. Our home is the laboratories because that's where tools and objects are experimented on in hopes of becoming super weapons. The extended are just a small portion of the population, and we don't have our rights and freedoms, but one can't expect them. We're only objects, tools, and weapons.

And so, we fight because that's all we know. That's our only purpose. That's the purpose of a weapon. We fight and sleep and maybe we eat. I can't remember – part of my mind was erased. For all their parading about peace, justice, freedom, and tolerance, those do-gooders and their fancier machines – like the Freedom – don't try to help the ones who can be disposed of at any moment – like run-down, worn out, overused tools. But then, why should I care? Why should I care that people aren't helping people like me out? Is it because of my pathetic dream of being a basketball player? Is it because without them, I have no way of getting out of this worthless existence? Do I _need_ their help?

I'm getting too dramatic and cynical. Sting would be the first tell me I am bitter; he would say so because he is bitter, too. He knows we have no future, and Stellar probably does, too. I like them. They're just like I am, so I'm not entirely alone. Stellar is a light in the darkness for me even though I still think she dances around like an idiot, and I'd rather listen to Sting than that moron with the mask, Neo. Neo must think he's mysterious – that mask is dumb. But who cares about my opinion? Nobody cares about an extended's opinion. Objects don't have opinions. They're not alive.

I'm dead. I'm dead because I have no future. I barely have a present, and I lied about not having a past – I have a shred. I remember…her. She was the only person who was ever kind to me. She was like a mother…maybe she was my mother. I don't know. I can't remember too well. They killed her and used her memory as a weapon against the bigger weapon, me. I think they have it backwards. The memory is the bigger weapon because it controls me and I have no way of getting out from under that control. That is why I take no comfort in knowing I have a piece of my past. That's why I want to _not_ remember her, but wishing does not always make it so.

So I was dealt an unfair hand. The million-dollar question is what am I going to about it? That's what they would say, people who are too cheerful and optimistic for my taste. What _can_ I do about it? My "superiors" would probably kill me in a heartbeat if I tried turning against them – not to mention the use of my block word. And because I am an experiment, I would not survive long on my own, and who would take me in, anyway? No one wants a seventeen-year-old orphan, whose skills fall under mobile suit piloting, assassination, and the ability to freak out whenever "mother" is mentioned.

There's the shuddering again – I'm trying my best to keep sane, but keeping my sanity intact isn't as straightforward as killing someone.

Perhaps I should be grateful for this war; the war has given me a purpose that is better than existing and having _no_ purpose at all. Even so, what kind of a life is that? Certainly no life when compared to my wishful dream.

Why am I still talking about my dream? I've consistently trashed that dream and my existence, so why am I still agonizing about it? It's stupid to hope against reality! It is because I said so! I know so!

Maybe I am foolishly hoping for a future.

Perhaps I _do_ want to live, to truly live.

Perhaps…

…or not.

Heh.

By the time I am told to get into those pods again, I'll probably forget I ever had this conversation with myself; maybe I'll forget how to play basketball. Maybe I won't dream again. Who knows? It's a cycle that will not break until I die – released from prison. That'll be a glorious moment -- relief at last.

But…I'll miss Sting and Stellar.

Great, I'm starting to be emotional and I hate that feeling. Objects aren't supposed to have feelings.

But…maybe I'm not _just_ an object since an object has no past and I _remember her_.

I suppose I can be human for a little while more if being human means still being with Sting and Stellar and playing another basketball game. If being human means to be able to dream and be more than a weapon, yeah, I'll stick around for a bit.

There – I made a decision and tools don't make decisions. I guess I'm a living weapon. Nevertheless, I'm still stuck in this reality, and it won't ever change for me because I still won't have a future. I know I'll _really_ die – that my time will inevitably come soon.

I'll still dream, though, because dreaming is _my_ weapon, and because I dare to dream, this makes me a little like those naturals and coordinators. I'm…glad. Yeah. Glad because I know they dream, too, and they're human. Knowing that makes me feel somewhat better. Dreaming of being a basketball player makes a better purpose than existing to annihilate.

Now I know why I said I wanted to be a professional basketball player.


End file.
